


The Feast of Bonds

by Tridraconeus



Series: The Vineyard of the Damned [3]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Baking, Dogs, Family Bonding, Food, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 13:27:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13682628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tridraconeus/pseuds/Tridraconeus
Summary: “Every family has their own recipe. Where did you learn this one?” That was Daud, rolling his hands into a washcloth. The flour reached well up his arms, nearly to his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.“On the back of the flour bag.”





	The Feast of Bonds

**Author's Note:**

> me doing meta: yeah Daud doesn't really care on a deep level about his Whalers, they're blades to command and his loyalty to them stops when they stop being useful.  
> me writing fanfic: THEY R... FAMILY  
> happy valentine's day!

As Billie walked in from the vines, she caught sight of Domenico trotting up the long dirt pathway leading to the house. He didn’t have the cart, so he’d gone alone. That was strange in itself. There were bandits on the roads, not that he’d have to worry about them. There were other dangers; feral hounds, but Biela and Zeca trotted along, massive jaws panting happily at his thighs. She came in the back door just about the same time he came in the front and they rendezvoused in the kitchen, she with a glass of water and he with a big cloth bag. She hummed questioningly and tipped her head to it.

“Today’s the Feast of Bonds,” Domenico said. He set down a cloth-wrapped bundle that he gradually unspun from the coarse bolt of cloth, revealing a jar of honey. The next thing out of the bag was a small and finely-woven bag with FLOUR printed in tan block letters. Billie didn’t know they were out. Then and again, she didn’t often bake. Domenico did. Rulfio, too, when he could be roped into it. Rinaldo mocked them for acting like old wives but Billie was sure she’d seen him with an apron on, helping to make Domenico’s coveted tartlets once or twice. 

“The Feast of Bonds,” Billie repeated. Domenico nodded. He set the honey on the counter near the sink and the flour close to it. Honey, when not from wild bees, tended to be expensive. When it was from wild bees, obtaining it tended to be a painful ordeal. “Why the honey?”

“I’m making honey cakes. It’s traditional.” 

Domenico, if she remembered correctly, knew only the grip of a blade. Evidently he’d grown back into the trappings of the land where he was born. Rinaldo, Daud, Domenico—they were born here. Billie felt like an outsider again. 

Domenico cleared his throat. Billie paid attention to him again, snapping out of the haze that had taken her. “Because the first round of planting is done, there’s a break—everyone comes in from the fields and celebrates. Now it’s more of a lover’s day,  _but_ , we’ve been doing a whole bunch of planting so I think I should make something for it.” 

“Ah.” Domenico knew that she didn’t have the same experience he did. Kind of him to fill her in. Kind, also, to not drag her into helping make them.

“You know what it was originally called?” Domenico grinned widely, the grin that betrayed a humorous lie. Billie hummed. It was useless to try and get him to stop; if he wanted to tell a pun, he would. “The Feast of  _Plows_.” 

Domenico busted out laughing, Biela at his feet yipping loudly with him. Zeca bayed outside. They always responded to him. Billie, despite herself, smiled. 

“Where’s Rinaldo? I’d assume he’d leap at the chance to help.” 

Domenico’s expression scrunched. “He went into the market with me and Thomas. He’s still there, I guess.”

“The farmer’s market.” She’d forgotten. Daud was upstairs in his room, had transversed there after finishing helping her trim down the vines and repair the well. Rulfio was outside in the vines where she’d left him. It was strange to not know where every part of the group was at all times, even after fifteen-sixteen- _longer_? years of being severed from any kind of Bond at all, and she hadn’t even missed Thomas and Rinaldo, too engaged in the work. “When will they be back?” 

“Thomas is always back by six because the market closes at four. Rinaldo should come with him.” 

Billie nodded her understanding. Domenico grinned again, effortless and happy. 

“Do you want to help?” 

While talking, he’d already gotten a cutting board out and prepped it—now his hands were covered in flour and a dough mixture sat in a bowl. Quick hands. Quick with a blade. She remembered training him—she remembered Rulfio training him. It should make sense that he would want something else to do with his hands other than killing.

“I can heat up the stove for you,” she said, purposefully toneless as she looked at his floury hands. 

“…thanks, Billie.” He smiled at her, chagrined at his mistake. “And can you tie the apron for me?” 

Typical. She’d make the mistake of giving him an inch, but it would be in bad form to refuse such a simple request even as he pried miles from her reluctant hands. “Sure.” 

She lit the stove. Tied the apron. Exited the kitchen glad to have escaped more, only returning to put a Shan Yun audiograph into the player so Domenico could have something to listen to. And  _also_  so she could hear him sing along, which was always amusing. 

She showered, changed, and by the time she returned to the kitchen Daud was also downstairs, working side-by-side with Domenico. She stayed silent with the feeling that this was something she shouldn’t interfere with. From the motions she could tell they were rolling out dough. A small pile of paper-thin dough, dusted in flour to keep it from sticking, sat to their left on one of the last open parts of counter. Domenico sang along. Daud didn’t, but Billie saw him tapping his foot. A glass bowl of chopped nuts had joined the jar of honey, their jar of olive oil out on the counter now too and another jar of honey with comb submerged within. Rinaldo waved at her from the table. He had honey on his lips and bee stings on his hands. Billie hid a smile behind her hand and sat next to him. Under the table, Biela snored great unabashed hound-snores, competing with Shan Yun’s voice but not Domenico’s. 

Domenico twisted over his shoulder. “Rinaldo, come over here, we need help putting them together.” 

“I got you honey, Nico.” Still, Rinaldo stood. 

“I told you I’d just buy it.”

“I thought you’d forget.”

“You just wanted to go raid a hive.” 

From the way Daud tucked his head, Billie could tell he was trying not to laugh. She set her elbows on the table and her chin on her hands, watching them maneuver around each other and start constructing dense, sweet cakes. They had alternating layers of thin dough and then honey and chopped nuts. The tops were brushed with olive oil and then placed onto butcher paper to be cooked. With the task of making the sweets pushed off onto Daud and Rinaldo, Domenico pulled out a wide pan. He brushed oil over it, then poured in honey, half a lemon’s juice, cinnamon, more sugar than she thought he should, and water. He replicated the mixture into a bowl.

“Thomas said that the goat’s giving milk,” Rinaldo piped up. The white of the flour stood out sharply against the darkness of his hands as he brushed them on his pants. 

“When I was in Cullero, they didn’t make the pastry with the honey, they just baked it and then dipped it in it,” Domenico responded. He eyeballed the pan and added a little more sugar. Despite herself, Billie managed to keep from gagging. “And you know what they do in Saggunto? It’s just  _honey_   _bread_. They drink the milk.”

“Karnaka makes it better,” Rinaldo declared smugly. Daud grunted. Billie ventured to hear agreement. 

“Every family has their own recipe. Where did you learn this one?” That was Daud, rolling his hands into a washcloth. The flour reached well up his arms, nearly to his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. 

“On the back of the flour bag.”

Daud snickered. Domenico ducked under a swat with the towel and grabbed a spatula hanging from the pot rack. Rinaldo laughed, full-throated. Billie let her arms drop and rested her chin on them, watching the others twirl around each other like bees.

Domenico placed the squares of pastry into the pan one by one, Rinaldo and Daud alternating handing them off to his floury-again hands. Once he’d filled the entire bottom he poured half the remaining mixture on top of it. Daud finished wiping his hands and walked over to the table, sitting down across from Billie as if he hadn’t had anything to do with the baking. She sat up. Hands on the table. Smiling, still.

“It should take a half hour to cook. I pity Rulfio and Thomas if they don’t get back in time.” 

“Thomas isn’t back?” She asked. Rulfio was still outside with Chicco and Totò, that she knew. 

“He’s with the goat!” Rinaldo called.

“He’s with the goat,” Daud repeated. 

”That's alright,” Billie decided. 

Thomas and Rulfio came in together. Rulfio went for a glass of water; Thomas eyed the bubbling pan of pastry. Rinaldo grinned at him. 

“It's sweet. Unlike you, that is.”

“Choffer,” Thomas shot back, though it lacked heat. He set a bucket of goat's milk on the counter and went to wash his hands. Domenico snapped a hand towel at Rulfio and got smacked upside the head for the effort. Billie looked at Daud, admirably ignoring them. 

“It's been a while since I've made honey cakes,” he finally said. Billie nodded. Slow. Understanding, she hoped. 

“You seemed like you were having a good time.” 

“Not hard to come by, these days. Sometimes I wonder if I don't deserve it.” 

Billie pursed her lips. Daud was, apparently, determined to be maudlin. Rulfio and Domenico sniped at each other in the kitchen. Rinaldo chewed on a piece of honeycomb, offering some to Thomas who took it.  “You're too old to worry about what you deserve. Just focus on the cake.”

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment or a kudos if you like!! Feedback (and validation) makes my day!


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